


Empty Beds: Draco's Story

by simeysgirl



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-14
Updated: 2013-04-14
Packaged: 2017-12-08 11:54:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/761025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/simeysgirl/pseuds/simeysgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Draco has a bit of time to think, and his thoughts turn to Harry.  A remix of <a href="http://kinky-kneazle.livejournal.com/profile"><img class="i-ljuser-userhead"/></a><a class="i-ljuser-username" href="http://kinky-kneazle.livejournal.com/"><b>kinky_kneazle</b></a>'s <a href="http://kinky-kneazle.livejournal.com/4843.html">Empty Beds</a>. Written for <a href="http://hd-remix.livejournal.com/profile"><img class="i-ljuser-userhead"/></a><a class="i-ljuser-username" href="http://hd-remix.livejournal.com/"></a><b>hd_remix</b> Volume 4.0.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Empty Beds: Draco's Story

**Author's Note:**

> Massive thanks, love and hugs to my beta, [](http://bleedforyou1.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://bleedforyou1.livejournal.com/)**bleedforyou1** ♥

Flopping back onto my bed, I sighed and threw the book aside. Even the great works of Libatius Borage couldn't cure my boredom. I had thought about opening the shop, but I'd discounted that before the thought had fully formed. I really didn't want to face my customers; their first words were usually “how's Harry?” and I couldn't think of anything I'd rather hear less.

I'd fire-called my Aunt's house a few times, but every time I broke the connection before anyone could answer. My mother's disappointed look would have to wait a few more days. I couldn't cope with that or her probable insistence on talking about Harry just yet.

I even wrote a letter to Pansy. I hadn't sent it, of course. Writing to her made me sad, and reminded me of how much I'd missed and needed her, but Pansy and I hadn't spoken for years. I'd tried my hardest to get her and my other friends to join me back in sixth year, but they wouldn't—couldn't—come. I understood at the time, but now, I just felt myself growing angry at them.

I was all alone. For the first time since I'd accepted his hand in that bathroom, I was all alone.

I walked around the Manor, twice, and eventually found myself in my favourite room of the house—the library. Plucking my favourite potions text off the shelf, I'd walked back to my room, happy at the chance to escape my own thoughts for a while.

It obviously wasn't to be. Harry didn't love me, and I was alone for the first time in years. Those were the only thoughts I was capable of.

~

I thought back to that fateful day in the bathroom. One bloody breakdown had done it. I'd been upset at my inability—or, more accurately, my reluctance—to do Voldemort's bidding. Why didn't I have the breakdown in the comfort of my own dorm? Why hadn't I cast a fucking _locking spell_? Why did Harry, of all people, have to witness it? And Harry—being who he was—couldn't just leave it. No. He had to bloody help.

He had to hold his hands up and walk towards me. Why didn't he just hex me? Why didn't I just hex _him_? One little _Crucio_ and I wouldn't have been in this mess. We have never discussed that moment in all our time together; I think we were just embarrassed about the whole thing. Well, I was certainly embarrassed by it. Harry had nothing to be embarrassed about; he simply held his hand out for mine and said three simple words, “Let me help.”

I couldn't regret taking Harry's hand and accepting his help. Who knew where I'd be if I hadn't. More than likely rotting in some cell in Azkaban, dead, or worse. I knew why my friends didn't—couldn't—follow me to Harry's side, of course. If Mother hadn't come with me, I would've stayed as well. I had to protect her. Just as my father did.

I always thought my father a coward, always following Voldemort around like a little lap dog. The day my parents met me in Hogsmeade so that I could explain to them what I'd done, I realised just how wrong I was.

My father was the bravest man I had ever known, besides Harry, of course. The relief on his face as I told them how Harry had worked out a way to keep us safe from Voldemort was palpable. I'd been so happy, thinking that we'd all get through it; knowing that we'd all survive.

My father then did something that had my world crashing down around me. He had taken me into his arms—something he hadn't done since I'd grown out of nappies—and told me he loved me and how proud he was of me. He'd done the same thing with Mother. I had to turn my back at the heartbroken look on my mother's face as he told her to keep me safe and he would do his best to do the same.

I'd never seen my father cry before that moment, and it made me shed a tear to witness it. Mother begged him to come with us, but Father stood his ground. He looked me straight in the eye and told me that he had to do the very thing he should have done years ago: protect me.

Harry told me weeks later that Voldemort had questioned Father as to our whereabouts, and Father had informed him that we had died—at his hands. Something about insubordination; I wasn't really listening after that. Voldemort—sick bastard that he was—had congratulated my father and given him a couple of Muggles as a reward for 'loyalty'.

That was one of the only times that I'd witnessed Harry throwing up after a vision; I'd helped him with his Occlumency after that. It was a turning point of our relationship; I realised then that we'd become friends.

~

I couldn't regret Harry's hand and becoming his friend, but I could damn well regret taking it further. Well, I could try to, anyway. To add insult to injury, it had been my own bloody fault. I know that Harry would never have acted on his fantasies. The walls of Grimmauld Place are very thin—at least they are when combined with an eavesdropping charm—and I could hear Harry moaning my name as he wanked himself to sleep at night.

We'd been fighting about something trivial—we were friendly, but we were still Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy at the end of the day—and I had Harry pinned to the wall. It sounds cliché and it was. I could have either punched him or kissed him, and I'd had enough of our dancing around each other.

As soon as my lips touched his, I was hit by a wave of insecurity. What if I'd misread the signs? What if I'd misheard Harry's moans, or mistaken Harry's looks? All that faded away the instant Harry started kissing me back. It wasn't at all romantic or soft; it was—to put it mildly—fucking hot. The unmistakable sounds of a herd of Weasleys thundering down the stairs was the only thing that could have separated us. Maybe they should have interrupted us every time.

~

We could have left it there; we didn't have to take it any further. I had to laugh out loud at that thought. Yeah, right. We were two horny teen-age boys who had found someone who wanted to kiss us back. Nothing could have stopped what happened that very night.

We avoided each other's eyes at dinner; even my mother had commented, asking if we had a fight. After Harry had excused himself for an early night, I'd waited all of ten minutes before I was doing the same. I ran up the stairs, but didn't go to my own room; I went straight into Harry's.

I expected Harry to be coy, maybe even tell me to leave him alone. I thought he'd maybe want to talk. I didn't expect him to jump off the bed, shut the door and slam me up against it. Finding myself pinned, as Harry had been earlier, I couldn't think of anything else to do but kiss him. Our mouths met and it was as hard and as hot as it had been that afternoon.

We somehow made our way to the bed, and I found myself trapped beneath Harry. It had been obvious that neither one of us had done anything like it before: we didn't know where to put our arms and legs, and it took us a good while to get into a comfortable position. By the time we had, we were fully in our stride, and a simple movement of our hips had our hard cocks aligned and touching something other than our own hands for the first time ever.

We rocked against each other as we kissed, hands touching wherever they could reach and I knew damn well that I wasn't going to last long, and by the look of sheer concentration on his face, I guessed the same could be said of Harry. Before I knew it, I was coming with my cock still in my trousers; Harry coming only seconds after me. Our kiss after that _was_ softer, and we—after a quick cleaning charm—soon fell asleep where we lay.

~

The next morning, I woke up mortified. Not for finding myself in bed with Harry, but for falling asleep and not returning to my own room. A quick glance to my left confirmed what I'd dreaded: Ron's bed was empty. Thinking he'd probably gone down to breakfast, and was more than likely explaining exactly what he'd found in his bedroom. Why he hadn't done it when he'd walked in the night before, I didn't know.

“Hi,” Harry said, waking up with a grin. “Fancy anoth—”

“It's morning,” I replied, my lips curving into a smile despite my predicament.

Harry's head whipped around to Ron's bed at my words. “Fuck.”

My sentiments exactly, I thought. We didn't even know what it was yet, and the whole bloody household was about to find out. Harry's assurances that we would be okay fell on deaf ears as I thought of one thing: what the hell would Mother say?

I was of a mind to hide in the bedroom until the world had crumbled to Voldemort, but Harry had simply pulled me out of bed and dragged me to the bathroom. “No use putting off the inevitable,” he'd said. “Anyway,” he reminded me, “the combination of your mum and Mrs Weasley is much scarier than the snake-nosed bastard.”

The kitchen was quiet. Mother was drinking tea and discussing the newspaper with a knitting Mrs Weasley. Mother told us to help ourselves to breakfast before reading an article aloud to a laughing Mrs Weasley. Harry and I looked at each, shrugged, and settled in to eat.

I was halfway through my bacon when Ron burst into the kitchen. I blanched and looked to Harry, who was also looking as white as a sheet.

“Malfoy. Thanks again,” was all that Ron said before plating up a mountain of sausages.

“For what?” Mrs Weasley and Mother asked at the same time.

“For saving me.” Ron laughed. “I couldn't put up with Harry's snoring any longer, so Draco agreed to swap with me.

“You're welcome,” I choked out.

I realised that that was the first time I'd underestimated Ron Weasley, and that I probably owed him a big favour. It only dawned on me afterwards that that was the first time he'd ever called me by my first name.

~

Ron, true to his word, took my room and I moved into Harry's, and before long, Harry's bed as well. With me and Harry sharing a room, things quickly progressed between the two of us. After a couple of weeks of kissing, hand-jobs, and fumbling blow-jobs, we finally took the plunge, so to speak.

Sex wasn't something we discussed beforehand; whenever one of our fingers trailed too close to the other's arsehole, we simply tended to quietly move the hand and continue as we were. And then once, we didn't. My hand had slipped down Harry's naked back and into the crack of his arse. I fully expected Harry to laugh and slide my hand back up, but he didn't. Instead, he pushed back against it. I swear to Merlin, my heart almost stopped.

The sex, such as it was, wasn't pretty. Neither of us had done it before, and Harry had had to put up with Ron's teasing the following morning when he had trouble sitting on the kitchen chairs.

It wasn't long before we discovered exactly what each of us liked and preferred in bed, and soon we were at it like dragons in heat. Maybe I should have realised it then. To Harry, it was just sex. Good sex, don't get me wrong, but just sex.

~

My eyes trailed over my bedroom as I lay on the bed. I needed something— _anything_ —to take my mind off of Harry for five minutes. The family portrait above the fireplace caught my eye and an automatic smile graced my face. Father looked so handsome, stood regal behind Mother and myself. My smile diminished as I looked into Father's eyes, knowing that I'd never see them in front of me again.

Whatever the man had done—and I knew first hand just how sever his crimes were—no one deserved the punishment he was given. Harry, earning my eternal gratitude, had tried his best at Father's trial. It had been held only days after Harry had finally defeated Voldemort—Mother and I safely ensconced in Grimmauld Place while he did so—and Harry, in a word, had been knackered.

Harry had stood up in front of the court, tired as he was, and explained how Father had only stayed beside Voldemort to ensure the safety of Mother and myself. The old fogies of the Wizengamot—evil bastards as they were—had twisted his words. They spoke of how even his own family couldn't convince Father to leave Voldemort's side, and how a man like that deserved the worst punishment possible.

Being wizards meant that there _was_ a fate worse than death, and they bestowed it upon Father. He was kissed before we could even contemplate arranging a second trial. The once proud Lucius Malfoy was now a dribbling mess, and there was nothing I could do about it.

That was the day that Harry had walked into the Ministry and told them exactly where they could stick their job offer. It was the day I thought that Harry actually loved me. He had been fantastic; so supportive. Harry understood when I didn't want to visit Father, he accompanied Mother when she did, and he held me all night as I cried for him.

I wiped the tears away as I thought about that time. I thought he fucking cared about me. I thought he loved me.

~

My morose thoughts were disturbed by one of our only remaining house-elves knocking on my bedroom door. I was sure that Mipsy—Tipsy, Lipsy, whatever its name was—only wanted to feed me, so I stayed in bed and tried my best to ignore it. I'd told them on my arrival that I wanted to be left alone and I'd call them if I needed anything; they could knock all bloody night if they felt so inclined. I was quite comfortable where I was.

 _Knock, knock, knock_. It was bloody incessant. Didn't the bloody elf know I'd only be here—alone—for one reason? _Knock, knock, knock,_ it continued. I flew off of the bed in rage, ready to berate the elf, SPEW be damned. I was stopped in my tracks by the elf's words.

“Master, you is having a visitor. He is waiting downstairs.” The elf—Tipsy, I idly remembered—moved to the side, obviously scared of my reaction.

I should have been worried about that; the last thing I needed was a visit from the Magical Creatures committee, but I couldn't. Of course, my first thought it was Harry, wanting to grovel for forgiveness. About bloody time it was too. A small part of me thought that maybe I'd made a mistake and Harry was just going to clear it all up, and we could just go back to normal. I told that part of me to shut the fuck up.

Composing myself, I thanked Tipsy politely before making my way downstairs.

It wasn't Harry; it was the last person I could ever imagine walking into the Manor of his own accord. Ron fucking Weasley. As soon as I spotted the git lurking around the hallway, I turned to walk back upstairs, back to the sanctuary of my room.

“Malfoy—Draco—wait!”

I continued on up the stairs, not at all interested in anything the ginger bastard had to say. I'd been correct after all—Harry would've been here himself if I'd he'd actually loved me. It had been a time of realisations, and I was pretty fed up with it, to be honest.

Ron followed me up the stairs, talking all the way—well, more babbling. I couldn't actually understand a word of what he was saying. I was sure I'd heard the word 'Harry' more than once, but, really, what else would he have to talk to me about? Before I could escape to the confines of my room and slam the door in his laughing face, he was ahead of me—damn his long legs to hell—and blocking the doorway.

“Draco, slow down a minute. I need to talk to you.”

“I think you've said enough,” I replied as calmly as I could. There was nothing he could say that I wanted to listen to.

“I'm sorry.”

Okay, so I wasn't expecting _that_. I could count on one hand the number of times I'd heard him apologise, and I didn't need any fingers at all to count how many times he'd apologised to _me_. I stopped my attempt to barge past him at his words. _What?_ I thought in my head. “What?” I repeated out loud.

“Please, listen. Harry—you didn't—you're making a mistake.”

“Don't tell me what I did or did—”

“No, I'm not saying it right. Just listen—”

“Weasley. Fuck off.” It wasn't often we reverted to surnames, Harry had seen to that. I was certain that the situation warranted it.

“No. I can't. Listen. Harry—he doesn't know how to do stuff. Stuff that you learn to do when you're growing up. Those _Muggles_ —”

Ron said 'Muggles' the same way my father used to say Muggles. It intrigued me—it made me stop and listen.

“Those Muggles that he was put with, they didn't show him how to do it. They never showed him how to act.”

“I know all this,” I said, wondering why he was bringing it up.

“Instead,” Ron continued, ignoring my renewed attempts to get past him, “he's learnt from my family.”

I grimaced; I know I did. I couldn't stop it. As much as I'd got to know them—Mrs Weasley fussed over each one of us constantly, Mr Weasley always sat us down for _talks_ and various other Weasleys teased us as ' _young 'uns_ ' mercilessly. As much as I'd grown to _like_ them—and yes, it was as big a shock to me more than anybody else—I still couldn't hold in my automatic look of distaste at their behaviour. It was ingrained in me from birth; I couldn't help but slip every once in a while.

I held my hand up to stop Ron from talking. Maybe it wouldn't hurt to hear what he had to say. What else did I have to do, anyway?

“No, mate, you need to hear this—”

“Come in,” I said, gesturing into the room behind Ron.

Ron looked shocked for a second before he turned and walked inside. I followed and sat on one end of the sofa, offering the other end to Ron.

“Talk,” I simply said.

“My family...they're not like yours.”

I scoffed and he smiled. It was a little smile, but it helped me a little. It felt as if we were back at home in Grimmauld Place, arguing about some inane subject. I found it hard to think that it was only two days ago; it felt like weeks since I'd left.

“Yes, different. We're brash and we're loud. We don't hold things in. We laugh and we joke. It's who we are. And you know who we joke and talk about the most?”

I shook my head. “Me?” I asked quietly, dreading the answer.

“Yep.” Ron smiled.

The twat fucking smiled. What the hell? Did he just come to make me feel even worse? I stood up, ready to kick him out on his arse. Git.

Ron grabbed my arm and forced me to sit back down. “Well, _we_ don't joke about you in particular. We, as a family, joke about our other halves,” he said, still not letting go of my arm.

Nodding, I gestured at him to continue.

“It's just what we do, what we've always done. Dad jokes about Mum's over-protectiveness. Mum teases him about his Muggle crap. Bill jokes about Fleur's cooking. I laugh about Hermione's snoring. It's just us. And it's what Harry thinks he has to do to fit in.”

I slumped back into the cushions and Ron finally released my arm.

“He doesn't mean it—” Ron stopped at my look. “Okay, he means it. But in the best way. He loves you. You do know that, don't you?”

I shook my head; my mind whirling. I kept trying to think back over the times I'd spent with the collective Weasleys. Of course I remembered the laughing; it's what drew me in in the first place, the happiness they exuded. I tried to remember what the laughter was over. Yes, Hermione's snoring was legendary. Ron moaned—well, joked, apparently—about it constantly. Hermione would simply slap Ron on the arm and moan about his smelly socks.

Was it that simple? Was I simply making something out of nothing? Harry's words rang in my head and I realised I wasn't; it fucking hurt. The bastard.

“He said—”

“I know what he said; I started it, and, again, I'm sorry about that. And that's not the point. He's distraught. It wouldn't surprise me if he wasn't lying awake right now, wondering and planning how he's going to fix it.”

I laughed. Only once, but I couldn't stop it. Ron was probably right—Harry thought he could solve anything if only he thought about it enough. I stopped myself and glared at Ron.

“But—”

“No. He loves you. Yes, he shouldn't have said it; he should have backed you up. And that's something that Harry's never going to forgive himself for; I know that for a fact. Now we—all of us—know to leave that alone.”

Ron's eyes flickered to my left forearm; if I'd have blinked, I would've missed it.

“We went too far; we'll just have to find something else to nag you about.”

“Ron—”

“Okay. Just let me explain something, please. It's important.”

As much as I wanted to kick him out, I couldn't. A small part of me wanted—needed—to know what was so important.

“Harry...he loves you—”

“You've said that. Repeatedly. But I don't see him—”

“He talks about you all the time. Good things. You should hear some of that. He doesn't shut up about you when you're not there. _'Draco should have been home by now; I hope he's okay.' 'I wonder what Draco wants for dinner.' 'Did you hear that Draco was the youngest Master Potioneer in a century?' 'Have you tried Draco's lasagne?' 'Did you know Draco gives the best back-rubs?_ He's relentless.”

I did have to crack a small smile at Ron's words, if only for his high-pitched impersonation of Harry.

“Sometimes, Harry goes a little overboard with his sharing. I wish he'd Obliviated me after the drunken 'Draco likes Parseltongue' conversation. The point is that he loves you, and he needs you. He knows he's acted like a twat. Would you please just come back and talk to him. Please?”

“Why isn't he here, then?”

“I don't know. But I do know that if I have to hear him tossing and turning and muttering away to himself again tonight, I'm going to kill him.”

I smiled inwardly at that. At least Harry wasn't finding sleeping on his own any easier than I was.

“Seriously, mate. Will you just save me?”

I laughed. Maybe I did owe Ron one after all.


End file.
